| Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867. | | | | VIII. To J. H. Reynolds | | By John Keats (1795–1821) |
| | | O THAT a week could be an age, and we | |
| Felt parting and warm meeting every week; | |
| Then one poor year a thousand years would be, | |
| The flush of welcome ever on the cheek: | |
| So would we live long life in little space; | 5 |
| So time itself would be annihilate; | |
| So a day’s journey in oblivious haze | |
| To serve our joys would lengthen and dilate. | |
| O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind! | |
| To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant! | 10 |
| In little time a host of joys to bind, | |
| And keep our souls in one eternal pant; | |
| This morn, my friend, and yester evening taught | |
| Me how to harbor such a happy thought. | | | | |
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